beneath one infinite sky
by CloudyDream
Summary: "Some loves aren't meant to last forever." Or, that story where Killian turns pirate for the love of a princess; and everything that happens from there.


**one: the letter**

* * *

_And no one called us to the land  
no one knows the wheres or whys.  
So I throw the windows wide  
and call to you, across the sky._

* * *

_I'll find you_, _Emma_, the voice called, as the earth quaked and the sky turned red. _I will_ always _find you_.

She was running, as fast as she could, to some safe place that no longer existed. There was no harbour in the storm, not anymore; and Emma shivered as the cold raindrops pickled her skin, blending with the salt of her tears. _I will find you, Emma, wherever you are_.

The voice sounded almost pleading now, desperate in its urgency. _Wherever you are_.

And kept going, faster and faster, eyes trailed to the ground as the stars fell from the sky above her head, golden and beautiful and oh-so fleeting, burning the brightest just before their end. She could see the lights with the corner of her eye – or where those lightings, striking the ground? Falling stars, there was _something_ about falling stars, something _bad_, something she should be _afraid of_; but Emma could not remember.

She could only run, like the hunted prey that she was.

_I will always find you Emma_, she heard again, stumbling and falling and rising again, smoke filling her nostrils. Was that _fire_ in the forest? From the lightings, perhaps; or perhaps it were the stars that burned so, used as they must be to the cold emptiness of the nocturnal sky. _No much longer now_, Emma told herself, still running like mad. Her hair flew in the harsh wind, soaking wet, whipping her face again and again as she moved.

Suddenly she heard it again, the voice, that terrible voice speaking her family's words. Her father's words, and her mother's, those of true love, twisted and turned into a common threat. _You can run, Emma, as much as you want_.

_I will find you_.

Oh, how she had longed for such words, once, dreamt of an all-consuming love in the dark of endless sleepless nights. She'd wished so hard, and for so long; and what was left of those times now? Old, washed out silk ribbons that had once been so bright; and wilted flowers turning into dust pressed between the pages of yellowed books.

And the bitter shell of a woman who had once been a lively girl, so long ago.

_I will always find you._

And then the forest opened in front of her, and Emma let herself fall on her knees, exhausted. She knew this clearing, had played by the shade of these trees as a child, when the world had been simpler, and life happier. _Safe, at last_.

Until she raised her gaze, looking straight ahead, and felt the smile die on her lips. She could see her family's castle in the distance, _home_; and it was nothing but a pile of smoking ruins. The sky was dark as ink above her head, and Emma knew then that the stars had all fallen, bright and beautiful – and burning and utterly _deadly_.

No.

_You can run as much as you want, Emma_.

Air, she needed air; and yet she could no breathe, rain still pouring all around her. She had nowhere to run, not anymore.

_I will find you._

Emma screamed, but there was no one left alive to hear.

_Wherever you are_.

And she was still screaming when she woke up.

* * *

On the day everything changed, the sun rose to a thunderstorm.

It had been raining all night, since well before Killian had gone to sleep, and kept going for hours and hours, the distant roar of thunders filtering into his dreams, oddly comforting, familiar as it was. The storm lasted through the whole night as the sky turned from black to grey pale purple behind the clouds, a glimpse of golden sunshine occasionally breaking through the steel-coloured mists.

It was warm when he made his way above deck, the humid summer air clinging to his skin, heavy drops falling so thick around him that Killian found himself blinking furiously as he walked to the helm.

"How was it?" he asked. Not that he was worried; his ship had made it through worse storms and came out unscathed. Murphy, second mate and navigator, seemed to share his opinion.

"Ever'thing alright, captain," the man said, nodding at him. "We should make port by mid-morning."

They'd been at sea for months now and, as much as Killian loved his ship, he could not wait for the feeling of dry, solid land beneath his feet. _Soon_, he told himself, thinking of warm fires and fresh food. _Soon_. And then, a few days later, just as the boredom monotony started to settle in, they would leave again.

All in all, not a bad life, Killian found himself thinking, tapping his fingers on the smooth wood of the helm, trying to ignore the familiar ache he felt, like the dull, pulsing pain of an old scar. _Not a bad life at all_.

It was indeed mid-morning when they made land, dropping the anchor in Spring Cove, a small coastal town and the closest thing he'd had to a home since the day he'd left the Enchanted Forest for good. The town was under no king's authority, a true free port where merchants and bankers would never shy away from gold, as bloody as it might be.

"Be back by this time tomorrow," he instructed the crew, firmly. Free port also meant no law but that of the stronger, and fights between members of different crews were more than common. "And if you are late…" he did not bother finishing. Failing to return to the ship in time meant not getting a share come morning.

"Mr. Smee," Killian called out, as the rest of the men nodded and made to leave the ship – all, but the few unlucky enough to be drawn to remain on board for the night. "You are with me. Let's go."

Killian had met William Smee some five years earlier, in a seedy alley where the man was about to get his throat slit for trafficking in magical artefacts in a city where such deals were forbidden; and immediately recognized what potential there was in the man in front of him. He'd gotten rid of the men and signed up Smee that same night, and never regretted it since, no matter how much of a coward the man could be at times. Smee might have been a scared mouse and inept with a sword, but he was also incredibly adept at finding anything, with a web of contacts larger than that of any man Killian had ever known.

One of those contacts was Black Chal, an innkeeper who dealt in spices, silk, and secrets.

"Ah, Captain Jones," he greeted as they stepped inside the inn, common room already half-full despite the early hour. "Mr. Smee. It's been a while."

"Indeed it has," Killian answered, smoothly, giving the man a practiced smile. "What do you say, shall we move this somewhere else?" He always rented a room, the best the man had, every time. Somehow, he could never bring himself to return to the ship with a woman in tow – to the ship that bore _her_ name – even after all this time, after he'd tried so hard to forget.

"Of course."

They were shown to a private dining room, small and cosy. There was a bedroom connected to it, Killian looked around, making sure everything was as he remembered. With its soft tapestries and a warm fire burning in the stone fireplace, the bedroom it was a far cry from his quarters on the _Jewel_; exactly what he wanted.

"Oh, before we start," the Chal began, handing him a letter, still sealed. "This arrived here for you a week or so ago."

Killian took the letter without even a glance, laying it over the table. It was one of the advantages of going back to the same port once in a while, the regular correspondence. Not often enough to become predictable and risk capture, of course, but enough to be a nice commodity.

"Well, let's start, shall we?" Killian asked, sitting down and crossing his arms on his chest. The sooner they would finish, the sooner he could go downstairs to the common room and get sorely drunk. "My crew and I," he said, giving a slight nod in Smee's direction, "have happened upon a shipment of saffron from the Summer Kingdom. A rather large one."

They hadn't even had to fire a single shot, the crew surrendering without a fight. Easy work, for sure, but dull as hell; much like all this haggling was.

He let Smee do the talking, for the most part. Chal left the room half an hour later, promising he would have his men unload the ship's cargo first time next morning in exchange for a hefty sum, and Killian stood up, relieved.

"Well, Mr. Smee," he said, as they both walked to the door. "I suggest you go downstairs and have some fun. Gods know I am," he added, passing one hand through his hair. "I'll be staying here tonight if needs arise, and _do_ _try_ to be on time tomorrow."

But Smee didn't answer. He was frowning, looking more pensive than Killian had ever seen him. "Captain," the man said, eventually, strangely serious. "Did you see that letter? On the table?"

Killian turned towards the man, one eyebrow raised. A curious question, and one he hadn't expected Smee, of all people, to ask him; not when the man could barely read. "Of course I did. I put it there, didn't I?"

"Of course, sir. Beg pardon. But…"

"But what?" he asked, impatient. Smee's behaviour was growing more curious by the minute, but Killian could not quite bring himself to care. "But _what_, Mr. Smee?" he repeated, when the man failed to answer.

"Well?"

"Did you see… the seal?" the man asked. "It's from the king."

Oh, _that_. The seal was a bright shade of turquoise and the letter written on white, expensive paper instead of parchment, enough that Killian could make a reasonable guess about the message's provenance.

He'd been working for King Midas occasionally for years, carrying on those few _jobs_ His Majesty did not want to be associated with. It was, to Killian, merely a mutual beneficial arrangement; he had no intention to shackle himself to another king, and no obligation to rush if he did not want to.

"It can wait," he told Smee. "We've got a nice, calm week to look forward to before I even see what King Midas might want from –"

"David," Smee blurted out; then immediately retreated, looking almost surprised the word had come from his mouth. Killian narrowed his eyes at him, frowning.

"What _did you say_?"

"The letter," Smee repeated, sounding almost determined this time. "It has… King David's seal, sir, and I thought you hadn't seen it, so that's why I asked –"

Killian crossed the room in two large strides, grabbing the letter from the table, turning it around – and sure enough, there it was, King David's seal impressed in the wax. Turquoise, he noticed again, so different from the golden seal the king used for the messages to his officers. His past was in that letter, the life he'd spent so long running from.

_And just what might King David want from me?_ Besides wanting him dead, perhaps, or at least captured, for his crime of desertion and the added insult of making off with His Majesty's flagship. If he couldn't have the real thing, Killian had thought back then, her namesake would have to do. Nothing said burning bridges quite like theft, and Killian might have been young and bitter and stupid, _too prideful for his own good_ as Liam liked to say; but still, he hadn't regretted it for a moment.

But all that had been long ago; since then, Killian had almost painstakingly attentive in avoiding to cross paths with any of King David's subjects, never engaging any ship of his navy even if they attacked first. It was because of some misguided sense of nostalgia, because of the respect he still had for the men he'd served with, if not for the king himself. Bitter he might be, but not to the point of risk going against his former friends – his _brother_…

He distantly heard the sound of the door slamming shut, Smee's steps heavy on the wooden floor as the man walked away. Good thing he had; Killian needed to be alone now more than ever.

He ripped apart the envelope, then blinked, incredulous. He would have recognized that hand anywhere, a woman's hand, but inelegant, the writing clearly rushed. She'd never been much for penmanship; to her tutors' despair. _Or for patience_, Killian remembered, suppressing a smile at the thought.

The letter itself was odd, a strange mix of a princess's formal words and the familiar tones of an old lover. Killian had never even thought of writing her, over the years; but if he'd had, he suspected his own letters would have sounded much like this one, just as uneasy and out of place as their entire relationship had been.

His eyes fell to the bottom of the page, to the small seal affixed there. Memories flashed through his mind as he traced the familiar edges of the swan with his thumb, remembering. It had been Killian's name for her, so long ago. _Swan_, he would call her, _my beautiful swan_, whispering sweet nothings in the dark of the night.

But then dawn would come, as it always did, and the swan would turn into a princess, perfect and golden and unattainable. They called her _jewel of the realm_ at court, all those nobles and strangers who had no idea of how the real Emma was, didn't know her favourite colour and favourite story and the way she looked when the sun shone through her hair on a lazy summer afternoon. They didn't know; but he did, and, for a while, it made all the difference in the world.

_She's not for you_, Liam would reprimand whenever he'd let his eyes wander in public, as if Killian _didn't know_, that she was too much and him not enough, that she would never have a future with someone like him, a simple officer with no title or lands, and a _foreigner_ at that. But he'd ignored it, ignored how different they were, how they could never be; ignored everything until he couldn't pretend anymore.

It was all in the past, now. Killian had not seen Emma, hadn't even spoken to her, in close to a decade. He'd left her and her kingdom behind, renounced his entire life for good; and now…

And now she wrote, asking for his help, with her father's approval or so it seemed. Something about retrieving an important shipment, the kind of thing he could have asked of anyone. Hell, wasn't that what the King's Navy was for? He of all people should know it. And yet…

Why him, Killian wondered, and why now.

And what would that mean for him?

Killian Jones was a pragmatic man. He knew himself well enough to know he would never settle for looking at what he could not touch, to see her again, to be in the same room with her, and don't act on it. He'd loved Emma for half his life now, and knew he always would, but he'd spent too long trying to forget her to have to suffer through everything over again.

_I'm sorry, love_.

He took a deep breath, and threw the letter into the fire.

* * *

"He didn't answer," Emma began, studying the face of the man in front of her for any reactions. "He received the letter, I made sure of that. But he didn't write back."

He remained impassive, to Emma's frustration. If there was a person who had to know how Killian Jones's mind worked, it was his brother. "And what about you?" she asked, surprising herself. The man's private life should remain so; but she was desperate to know. "Did you ever heard from him?"

Liam Jones, commodore of King David's navy and Emma's closest confident, brought one hand to his forehead, looking more tired than she'd ever seen him. "No," he answered, eventually. "I haven't heard from him at all. The last time it was when we spoke, on the day he left."

The day Killian had left; Emma remembered that. One exact week before her wedding, the last time she had ever seen him. He'd left without saying farewell, but then again, they never were much for sentimentality.

She and Liam had grown closer, after that. Theirs had been an acquaintances made of loneliness and circumstances, but it had been exactly what they'd both needed. She'd been the one to seek him out at first, back when the shadow of Killian's desertion still marred Liam's reputation to eyes of his fellow officers; but they'd never talked about the man they both had in common, to one who'd brought them together.

Not before today.

For years, Emma would politely forget that Liam had a pirate brother, a pirate who'd once been in appearance utterly devoted to King David's cause, always ready to change topic whenever some idiot would bring it up when Liam could hear; and he, in exchange, pretended that Emma hadn't been the reason why his brother had left, even though he must at least suspect so.

But whatever vague suspicions Liam might have had been cleared once and for all once month ago, when Emma had named Killian as their last resort. _We are desperate_, she had told her mother and father. _I'll contact him; he will listen_.

And now, he hadn't.

"Do you think…" Emma began, then stopped. She'd been about to ask Liam if he thought Killian would listen to _him_, but it was too late for that now. Once, Emma might have frowned at the thought of using someone's family to her advantage; but now, when she was too frantic to worry about morals, it was too late. Even if Liam were to contact his brother now, after years, right after Emma had, he would see right through it.

Liam was frowning at her silence. "Do I think..?" he prompted.

"Nothing," Emma shook her head. "Nothing. It was stupid."

"But I have been thinking about something," she continued. Emma had been thinking so many things since _it_ had happened, so many memories and regrets.

"About Killian," she said, and Liam went still. How long had it been since she'd spoken his name out loud? From Liam's reaction, just as long as it had been since he'd last heard it.

Not _Captain Jones_, not _Jones the pirate_, but _Killian_, the man she'd loved and lost and driven away.

For her wedding gift, Killian had promised her he wouldn't make a scene.

_It wouldn't do to distract the people from such a beautiful bride_, he'd whispered, his breath brushing against her neck, on the shell of her ear; and she'd frowned at the reminder of her impending wedding and told him, _good_, before leaning down to capture his mouth in a kiss.

He'd been gone in the morning, and Emma had thought nothing of it at first. He spent longer at sea than he did at land, and she could only be grateful that he'd been assigned a mission that would prevent him to attend her wedding.

One week later, the day of the ceremony, she found out that he'd volunteered.

Two months later, the news of Killian's desertion reached them, too late _to distract the people_ from anything.

Emma had cried herself to sleep that night, and then berated herself for her stupidity. They'd never spoken about how things would change after her wedding, but she'd always thought, always hoped… _But assuming is for fools, _she'd told herself_, and hope for children_. And now he'd gone and turned pirate, the stupid idiot, and what for.

That night, that terrible night, Emma had found herself wishing he'd asked her to run away with him, at least one. She'd never even thought of the possibility; not Princess Emma, who loved her family so much, but she'd never even had the chance to _choose_.

And perhaps it had been too long; perhaps things would never be back like they had once been. It was nothing new; Emma had done her peace with that years ago. But she _would not_ be waiting in a corner as her last chance passed her by because of a man's silence.

"Well, it's quite simple, really," she continued. "If he won't even bother _asking_ what this is all about, then I suppose he should be told in person."

Emma was persistent, and too determined to be stopped only because some prideful, stubborn pirate refused to talk to her. "I think I shall go tell him myself." She smiled, softly, to herself. _I've always wanted to go on an adventure_.

* * *

**FYI, this is my very first OUAT fic and I'm terribly nervous about posting it. And any feedback would be seriously wonderful; pretty please?**  
**Also, if you feel like it, look me up on tumblr – username _justoldlights_.**


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